


Bracelets of Gold

by Tindomerelhloni



Series: Bracelets [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Granada Holmes canon, M/M, Secret Relationship, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-12-25 08:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18258044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: Inspired by the secret tradition in Victorian history where same sex partners would sometimes use bracelets instead of wedding rings. Inspired by this post https://acdhw.tumblr.com/post/182444841455/watson-appears-to-be-wearing-a-gold-bracelet





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this until I was finished. But I've had a very rough week. People who I thought friends turned against me and I'm having a hard time copeing right now. 
> 
> I apologise in advance for any mistakes. I don't have a Brit pick or a beta.

It had been years since last I knocked on this plain wooden door, on what seemed an abandoned building. Two fast knocks, a pause to the count of seven, then three more rapid knocks.

I waited with bated breath, hoping the pattern hadn't changed since a gentleman at another Molly house had shared the passcode with me. The last time I had been to this particular _club_ was the day before I had been deployed, looking for a "good time". That secret knock long since changed.

After what felt like hours, the door to the White Swan, a secret gentleman's club for men with _questionable_ taste in sexuality, opened and I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a familiar face.

"Bolduc!" I exclaimed, thrusting a hand out to greet the butler who'd diligently guarded this door to paradise for the better part of the last decade. “They still have you answering the door?" I flashed the now graying man a grin as he took my hand in his and shook it.   
  
"Couldn't pay me to do anything else, Dr. Watson," he returned my grin then ushered me inside. The outside door lead into a small antechamber, sparsely furnished and dimly lit. "What'll it be tonight, sir?" walking to a table he motioned to a stack of red silk handkerchiefs and a vase full of green carnations.

Considering the implications of each item for a moment, the carnation meaning you were looking for more than a quick fuck, a relationship or at least something meaningful, and the handkerchief meaning simply a fuck, I took up the sinfully red handkerchief, folded it, and placed it in my outside breast pocket.

"Have a good night sir," the butler said, motioning towards the main door just down the far end of the room before he sat down on his plush red chair beside the entrance, awaiting the next patron.

The main room of the club, long and rectangular in shape, was bustling with life. In the back left, tucked into the corner was a stage where a woman in a sparkling dress was singing.  The bar, which I could see hadn't changed in my time away, was just before that, also on the left wall. Leaving the rest of the room to be filled with tables, secluded booths, and sofas along the back right wall where you had a clear view of the stage.

I headed straight to the bar, preferring to have alcohol in my system before prowling around for a fuck. Ordering a glass of whiskey, and motioning that the bartender should give me more than a single pour, I tossed some money down and surveyed the room. I was here to blow off steam.  Holmes and I had just finished a particularly grueling case, and I wanted to bed someone before the adrenaline wore off. Holmes, no doubt was indulging in his seven percent solution by now.   
  
There were a few couples sitting at the tables, clearly getting to know one another. While in a booth, there were two men practically with their tongues down each other's throats. The White Swan tolerated some public displays of affection, but I could tell that if they didn't let up for air, they'd be asked to go elsewhere. This wasn't a whore house.

I made my way past the tables and situated myself on an empty sofa. With my whiskey in one hand and my other arm slung over the back of the sofa, I allowed myself to look. To _really_ look. 

Doing my best to deduce a few men, like Holmes, would have certainly done, I discovered one man with a wedding band and wondered what lie he'd told his wife before leaving the house at such an hour. Or if he'd simply snuck out while she slept. With my limited foresight, I wasn't able to glean much more from the patrons, other than what the red handkerchiefs told me of their carnal desires.

I let out a sigh then sipped my drink. The White Swan used to be akin to my home years ago. It had been the one truly safe underground club at the time. Bulduc insured its safety by guarding that door with his life. It took knowing someone from the club to get in. The woman singing, Evelyn, was the _wife_ of the owner, ensuring that our entertainment was safe.

Evelyn and Burt had married young, so the story went, they lived a few happy years together until she found him out. Instead of turning him in or leaving him, she'd used her family's money to help build the White Swan into what it was today. She was loved by everyone in the club, and by Burt. They remained married in the eyes of the law, but she had her own lover, the bartender Daniel, and somehow they made it work. For which we were all grateful.

I felt myself relax as I listened to Evelyn sing, it felt like coming home after a long day, being here. I would have come here sooner if it hadn't been so far from Baker Street. As it is, I lied to Holmes tonight saying a patient was giving birth and I was needed, planning on telling him that it was false contractions... Not that he'd ask.

Halfway through my drink, I gave the room another glance, seeing if anyone new had come in. My taste in men had never been this particular. Before leaving for war, I'd do any man who flashed me a genuine smile.

Now though, now I was ruined. My taste, if I were being perfectly honest with myself,  was my dear friend Sherlock Holmes. Over the course of my time with him, I had become smitten. I had combed every club looking for anyone who closely resembled him to feed into my fantasy during our coupling.  Yes, I'd found a few, men who were tall, thin, some even with piercing gray eyes, but they all left me wanting. I found myself pretending they were him just so I could get off. He'd ruined me…

I shook myself out of my reverie at the sound of scattered applaud as Evelyn finished a particularly lulling song, and resumed my sweep of the room. By chance I glanced at the bar, intending to see Daniel give his lover a smile, but instead what I saw made me gasp audibly. The couple at the table closest to me glance my way, but I paid them no heed. There, lounging against the bar if he owned the place, was Holmes. Dressed in a stark black suit and waistcoat, a silky black top hat I didn't even know he owned on his head, a brilliant red handkerchief in his breast pocket, and he was staring at me.

Amusement, and what seemed like genuine surprise at seeing me here of all places, was clearly written on his usually stoic face. Before I could put my, now empty glass, down he turned at strode with quick steps to the exit.   
  
I followed as quickly as I could, brushing past people seated in their chairs in my haste, and dashed into the antechamber, expecting him to be halfway out the door.  Instead, I rushed into the small room and nearly collided into his side as he stood by the table, where he was exchanging his handkerchief for a carnation. Wordlessly he selected a second flower, turned to me and with a surprisingly nervous smile, offered it to me.

It took me longer than I like admitting to come to my senses. With no small amount of trepidation I nodded. He stepped close, closer than would have been proper if we were in a different setting, and pinned the flower to the outside of my jacket. He then removed the red handkerchief, both mine and his, and placed them on the table.

“Now, we should talk,” his voice startled me despite how softly he was speaking.  Before I knew it he'd taken my arm in his hand and lead me back into the main room of the club where he quickly secured us a relatively secluded booth.

He sat across from me, hands folded on the table in front of him, knuckles white as if he were gripping his hands with all his strength. Yet after a moment or two of staring at me, he let out a crisp laugh.

“What is so funny?” I finally spoke, slowly, my words muddled from the alcohol and brought a hand up to touch the flower pinned to my lapel. Pinned to me by none other than my dear friend.

“Us, _John_ , and the position we find ourselves in. I can't help but wonder how I missed this. Such an important feature of yours.”

Holmes scrunched his face in annoyance and I found that I felt pity for the man. Had I known that my secret was safe with him, surely I would have told him.  

“It isn't as if I'm inclined to introduce myself as a faggot,” I said and Holmes winced at the name.

“John,” he admonished with a slightly harsh tone, “if you must put a name to it, Invert is slightly less offensive.”

I nodded and realizing I was still fingering the flower I schooled my hands and placed both of them on the cool tabletop. My head swam, both from shock and alcohol, leaving me feeling like a fool.

“I never knew either,” I clumsily gestured towards him, and the club, at our situation. Then, looking at his green carnation and touching mine again, quietly asked, “what does this mean for us?” 

I was no longer afraid that the man I shared rooms with would find me out and report me. Instead, I was afraid that the man of my fancy, of my every sexual dream and waking fantasy, would not want _me._

“It means, if you do favor men,” here Holmes refused to look me straight in the eye as if he were afraid of rejection. Instead, he reached over and touched my flower, “I would like to know you more _intimately,_ my dear Watson.”

Reaching up, I took his hand in mine, lacing my fingers between his then brushed a kiss against his knuckles. “I think I'd like that very much.”

We fell into easy conversation, as was our way. Our hands remained entwined, laying on top of the table. At some point, Holmes ordered a brandy, but it lay beside our hands, hardly touched.

“What with the way you so painstakingly described our female clients,” he was saying as his thumb brushed over my knuckle, leaning a tingling sensation in its wake. “I rather thought you fancied the female populous. Especially that Miss Morstan.”

“Ah well,” I sighed and smiled slightly,  “one can still enjoy diamonds while shopping for emeralds.”

“That would make me an emerald then?” he asked arching a brow quizzically. 

“No, my dear, that would make you a moonstone. Far more beautiful than my eyes can comprehend.” 

“My my, quite the romantic.” 

Perhaps it was the brandy, despite how little he had consumed, but he blushed. Something inside me told me that this man has seen little in the way of romantic compliments, something I planned to rectify.

When the hour grew so late it would be close to impossible to hire a cab back home, we made our way out to the antechamber. Donning our coats, we were careful to cover, but not to crush, our carnations and headed home.

That night Holmes fell into my bed as if he had been born into it. Oh, I made him sing my name, and when the pleasure caused exhaustion, I wrapped him in my arms and gently kissed his nose.

“Sleep, my dear Sherlock,” I said, using his name aloud for the first time, and he slept.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until Monday to post this, as I'll be away this weekend and unable to write. But I can't help myself 
> 
> Next chapter sometime next week. Thank you for the kind words so far!!

We carried on with our lives much as we had before. Oh, things _had_ changed, however, it never felt unnatural or forced. If our landlady knew she never let on. But we were careful, doors would be closed, curtains were drawn and latches locked before we would reach for one another.

When cases took us out of London we would grin at each other in secret at being _forced_ to share rooms in an inn. And at the end of a case I no longer rushed off to a gentleman's club to find myself a partner for the night, and Holmes partook of his seven percent solution less often.

It had been six months since our fateful night at the White Swan, a warm and fragrant breeze was blowing in through the windows. It tickled a state of restlessness in the back of my mind that couldn't be ignored. It had been an unusually harsh winter, which kept is indoors seeking warmth. Warmth usually found in one of our beds, which neither of us had minded terribly. Now the weather, having turned warm during the day, if slightly chilly at night, left me no longer content to sit indoors.

“My dear fellow,” my words pulled Sherlock's nose out of one of his many books, “We've been cooped up indoors for far too long. With too few cases drawing us away from our quarters. A trip to the countryside would do both of us well. For our health,” I added slyly as I put the finishing touches on the model ship I’d been building and carefully slid it inside the bottle.

“Our health. But of course, Watson,” my companion glanced up from his book and spared me, or perhaps humored me, with a smile. “I'll leave you to the planning then,” and with that went back to his book. I felt mildly jealous but l still, I much prefer the book to one of his, usually, fragrant chemist experiments.

In the end, I managed to secure, through a client who owed us a favor for stopping a would-be robber in his shop, a small seaside cottage. It consisted of five rooms, a privy, and a charming view of the Atlantic ocean. The small garden had a path that leads down a short way to a rocky beach, and while it wasn't ideal for swimming that didn't stop us from getting our feet wet.

We abandoned our shoes and socks on a rocky outcrop then we picked our way along the shoreline arm in arm. Anyone who saw us would have simply assumed we did so for balance as we traversed the occasional slippery stones, and while partly true our main intent was one of romantic comfort. Though we were, for all intents and purpose, alone, we took care of making sure not to display too much affection while out in public. Instead, we drank in the simple moments as if they were our last drops of water while stranded in a desert.   
  
We walked along the water's edge in silence a few paces. I could tell that Holmes was deep in thought and knew better than to disturb him, so I happily soaked in the fresh salty air and listened to the cries of the gulls above.

As we neared the end of the short peninsula Holmes patted my hand that lay resting in the crook in his arm, looked around then turned his gaze on me. His eyes were grey like twilight, his gaze stronger than the wind coming in off the ocean, yet his bottom lip quivered as if he wasn't quite sure what to say.  
  
"My dear fellow," began I, but he stopped me by placing a finger on my lips.   
  
"I would speak, my dear, for just a moment," Holmes spoke, voice hushed to the point where the wind nearly took it away before it could reach my ears.

"It comes to you as no surprise," my friend began, "that these past months with you have meant more to me than any other human interaction I've experienced."   
  
Feeling this wasn't the time for me to speak, to break his concentration, because concentrating he was, I nodded and let him take my hands in his as we stood facing each other at the tip of the peninsula, surrounded by sea on one side and a short, but rocky cliff on the other.   
  
"My dear Watson, I wish to pledge myself to you in such a way that is not yet legal, though I have no doubt that someday, the world will be more forgiving towards gentlemen of our... dubious nature.  Though we might not live to see such a time..." He gained a wistful look, then seemed to shake himself out of his reverie after a moment, "But here I am sidetracking myself. Watson," he again fixed me with his sole bearing gaze, “if you'll have me I wish to be your husband. I know of a reverend who owes me a favour and is... discreet. I've been pondering how to ask you for some time now, and when you suggested we get away. Well, it seemed the perfect opportunity. I..."

I cut his words off with a kiss. We were well enough alone, and at that moment I cared little if anyone did happen to see. All that mattered was the man in front of me, the man bearing his very essence to me with this one secret wish. My Sherlock...   
  
"Yes, man, yes," I said cupping his face in my hand as I kissed him quite thoroughly right there on the rocks. "Of course I'd have you, and I will. I swear it." I kissed him one last time before, regretfully, pulling away lest we are found out. t.

His broad smile warmed my heart. It was as if I were looking directly into the sun at its peak. He squeezed my left hand, which still remained in his grasp, lifted his face to the sky and laughed a true, heartfelt laugh.  
  
"My dear man! I had hardly dared wish for such an answer. These few years spent together, I never..."     
  
Now it was my turn to silence him with a finger to his lips.   
  
"I know," was all I said, then turning so we were facing the crashing waves, I slipped my arm back through his and grinned.

After standing there in silence a moment, implications of the danger we faced swam through my head. Without turning, instead, I fixed my gaze on the crashing waves, feeling as if I might slip underneath one at any moment, I asked, "You're sure this reverend is trustworthy?"

"Quite," my companion said without a moment's hesitation. But if you won't take my word for it, perhaps you'll believe me after talking with his husband.  
  
I could feel the coy smile before I turned and saw Holmes looking at me as if he'd just won all of the Queen's gold. It instantly calmed my worries and I nodded, feeling at peace.

"Ah," is all I said for what else could I say in such a moment. We both turned back to stare at the sea. Holmes extracted his arm from my grip and gently placed his hand on the small of my back.   
  
"How very impertinent of you my dear." I chuckled softly at the gesture but did not pull away.   
  
"I've never claimed to be anything but ill-mannered, my dear."   
  
"Tou·ché," agreed I, then stepped slightly closer until the sides of our bodies were touching. We watched as the sun set, a brilliant red ball in the sky reflecting hues of reds, oranges, and pinks on the water, then carefully made our way back to our shoes.   
  
We supped on cold meat pies, provided by Mrs. Hudson, then I set about lighting a fire to warm the chill out of the air. The lounge was small but comfortably furnished. Holmes sat himself in a high backed wicker chair while I picked out an overstuffed armchair.  

“Shall we marry right away? Or do you wish to wait?”

The question surprised me. Holmes had never been the sentimental type and today he had tipped the scales regarding my expectations of him. I eyed him and after a moment of his quizzical look I laughed

“My dear fellow, let it never again be said that you do not care. I can see plain as day that you wish this as much as I do.”

“Then we shall go see the good Reverend on our way back into London.”

I took comfort in the way he said it. It was full of warmth and a level of care, care for me, that I had never felt before. I simply nodded and we shared a smile.

 

 

***

  


It rained the next two days, cold, windy rain that came straight from the heart of the ocean. The weather, try as it might, did nothing to damper our cordial mood. How could it? The man, who loved me with the same passion he displayed solving cases, had asked for my hand.   
  
We spent the rainy days much as if we would have if back home in London.  I used the quite, save for the roar of the wind, to write up our last case, while Holmes took to one of his indexes, his thirst for knowledge insatiable as ever.

Mid-afternoon on our second day of rain, Holmes snapped his thick book shut with such a thud that it caused me to start and leave a blot of ink on the page I'd been writing. I looked up, about to chide him, when his look startled me. He looked worried.   
  
"My dear fellow!" I exclaimed,  placing my ink jar aside and stood to go to him. He, however, stopped me with a wave of his hand.   
  
"Rings! What should we do about rings? It would be rather suspect if suddenly we're both spotted sporting rings on our fingers. I sat back down, deep in thought. 

It took a moment until a solution came to me. When I'd been in the army, a few lads I knew had fallen in love, bonding over war, and married. I had been close to them, part of their inner circle, and had been asked to be their witness at their joining. Instead of rings, they exchanged simple golden bracelets. Easily hidden under the cuff of one's sleeve, but there as a reminder of the vow they'd made to each other.

I explained this to Holmes,  who immediately began to pace excitedly.   
  
"And you'd wear such a thing?" He asked me.

"Of course, if it came from you, I'd wear anything."

His smile warmed my heart, it was like a beam of light had broken through the clouds and touched my very soul. I stood again and made my way over to him and boldly took him into my arms.  

“How I love that smile.” I gazed at him for a long moment then leaned in and pressed our lips together. He didn't moan, as a story would say he should, he didn't pant or claw at me. Oh, but he did melt. His body went soft against mine, his lips sought out mine and one of his large hands cupped the back of my head as gently as if I were a flower he might crush.

We stood by a window, in the mid-afternoon, kissing for all the world to see until he finally, regretfully, pulled away. “Tonight, my love, I'll show you just how much I love you,” he whispered as he drew back and checked out the window in case anyone had braved the storm to come see us.

“Go back to your story. Perhaps I'll play for you as you right. I feel like composing.”

Picking up his violin he plucked at it and twisted the pegs until it was tuned to his liking. He did play for me, a composure of such depth and feeling that I dare say it did make me romanticize our latest case with just a bit more flourish than usual. I couldn’t help but let a smile tug on my lips as I wrote about Holmes tearing my trousers open to inspect the bullet wound I’d just received. After ensuring it was nothing more than a graze, he had turned to Evans and struck him in the head with the butt of the gun, swearing to the man that he wouldn’t have left the tiny basement room alive if I had been killed.   
  
Writing it, the memory made my heart swell. Holmes didn’t show his _human_ side often, but he had shown it and more in that’s dreadful moment. He let another human see just how much he cared for me and I wanted to stop writing, to go to him, to kiss him again. But his music wrapped around me, encouraging me to write, to complete our latest story. As his   (his words, not mine), I tended to paint him in an inhuman light. I showcased his mind, his talent in solving the unsolvable. Nay, not simply solving… He made even the most hopeless case seem nothing more than a riddle one might find in the Sunday newspaper. But in this, The Adventure of the Three Garridibs, I couldn’t help but make him himself, human.   
  
After what was probably two hours of writing, I put my pen down and set the stack of paper aside. It was dark now, only just past twilight but the grey storm clouds made it as dark as midnight. As I stood from the writing desk, Holmes lowered the violin from his shoulders and looked at me. “Is it finished?”

“Perhaps,” I felt coy, felt like I was teasing a young lover. I walked up to him and put my hands on his thin waist. “If it is, would you like to read this one?”

“I always read them.”

The confession shocked me. Yes, he had criticized my work before, groaned about becoming a public figure through my stories, but I had hardly expected him to read them, all of them. “Then you shall be the first to read this one. But first, dinner.” As if to prove my point my stomach let out a low groan and I turned to the fire where we’d hung a pot of stew earlier in the day. Primitive, but efficient. Between the two of us, we weren’t starving, but it would be a joy to go back to Mrs. Hudson and her marvelous meals.

Over our bowls of stew, Holmes suggested we go into town the next day, weather permitting, to find ourselves a jeweler who could make us matching gold bracelets. It was decided that I’d claim they were for the woman I was courting back home.

That night our sounds of pleasure rivaled that of the claps of thunder. Once fully sated, Holmes sat cross-legged on a cushion by the large window in our bedroom smoking while I drifted off to sleep. I missed the warmth of his body beside me, but I knew if he'd stayed he would have been restless to the point where even I wouldn't sleep. So, knowing he was watching me I slept.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't what I wanted it to be, but I have zero time to write right now, and its either post it, or pick at it and make it worse.

I woke the next morning to streams of sun dancing across my face. Holmes had dawn back the drapes and was standing with his back towards me at the window, silhouetted by sunlight. He'd changed into a dark linen suit, his hair had been neatly combed back. He looked as refreshed as if he'd slept the whole night. (Which I knew he hadn't.)    
  
"The storm broke." I said groggily, as I sat up. Instead of chiding me for my rather obvious statement, he turned to me with one of his rare smiles, a hint of mischief in his eyes.    
  
"It's quite agreeable out. Fancy cycling into town?"

 

Upon our initial arrival in town, I had set about renting bicycles for us to use during our stay. The storm, until today, had prevented any enjoyment granted by them and I readily agreed. I wasted no time getting ready and forwent breakfast in favor of getting an early start on our journey.    
  
We cycled lazily towards the small town, taking our time and stopping at a few points where the path overlooked spectacular views of the sea. (I daresay Holmes indulged my enjoyment for scenery that trip into town more than I deserved.)

 

Our trip in to town was quite successful. Not only was I able to coheres Holmes into eating at the local inn, but we found a jeweler who could make me (us) exactly what I wanted before it was time for us to return back to London. I settled for a simple design, the thin twin bracelets had a single hinge on each, and a small clasp held together by a chain. I asked for no designs, or gems to be embedded, and the jeweler was wise enough not to comment on my "lady's" lack of desire for finer things.  If he knew the true purpose, he didn't on.   
  
We picked up a few provisions then made our way back to our cottage.

 

The rest of our stay was enjoyable. The weather, mostly, was warm and we spent a good amount of time exploring, and Holmes managed to stiff out a relatively interesting case that kept us occupied for three days. Finally though, it was time to leave.    
  
We left the cottage early and once in town, before heading to the train station Holmes excused himself.    
  
"I'll leave you to see the jeweler. I have a telegram to send. I'll meet you at the station, say, in thirty minutes?"   
  
Nodding I bid him farewell and headed off. The bracelets were, in a word, spectacular. They were roughly as wide as my thumb and when closed the hinge was nearly invisible. I admired the man's work for a few moments before coming to my senses. Paying him I pocketed our small treasures than stepped out into the warm spring air and headed to the station.

 

Holmes met me at the station just as he said he would, smiling to himself in a way that told me it was no simple telegram he'd just sent. I refrained from asking him, knowing that once alone on the train he'd tell me.    
  
Twenty minutes later the train was off, whisking us away from the quiet countryside. Holmes and I sat in our own private car. I handed him the twin bracelets, he inspected them eagerly as he explained his telegram.    
  
"I sent word to our good Reverend that I would require a favor of him, in return for my services long ago. We should have enough time to change suits at home before our appointment with him. A visit to my brother after will warrant a reason for dressing in finery. His knowledge of our affairs could prove helpful, should it ever come to that."    
  
"You'd trust your brother with that information?" I asked, a bit a surprise tinging my voice.    
  
"Let us say, I'm not the only one in my family who doesn't go for the fairer sex."

 

In a bold, and public, show of affection I stretched my legs out, placing my feet between his on the floor of the rumbling train. He looked at me and arched an eyebrow.

 

"My legs were cramping," I said smugly, pressing my foot against one his.

 

"Can't have that," he said, and then he laughed.

 

Time passed, mainly in silence though thoughts swirled around in my head. A few times I opened my mouth to speak, but met with Holmes's stare I'd promptly shut my mouth and return to my brooding. Finally, he could take it no more.

 

"While you have a grand gift of silence, Watson, I currently find it unnerving. Out with it, man."

 

"I simply finding myself wondering, Holmes, if we're being too bold." 

 

"Bold?"  He sat back, and pulled his traveling blanket tighter around his narrow shoulders. 

 

"Marrying. Not saying I don't wish for it, I just... The risk, Holmes."

 

"Think nothing of the risk. Not saying we wouldn't face prosecution if found out, rather that if we are cautious, which I always am," 

 

Here I broke in with a laugh and he waved it off with a smile. We both knew he was anything but cautious. That is what he had me for." 

 

"Simply put, with my brother's help and that of our good Reverend, we're in good hands, my dear."

 

"I trust you," I said, and I did. I always had, hadn't I? He'd yet to lead me  _ too _ far astray.

 

I spent the remainder of our ride back to London in quiet anticipation, suddenly realizing how a blushing bride must feel on her wedding day. Even though I knew our union would be quite secret, that knowledge did not diminish the meaning it held for Holmes and I. A short time later my feet hit the hard cobblestones of a London street, my senses felt heightened, I could feel each individual stone under my feet as we swiftly made our way from the station towards the line of carriages waiting for hire. Holmes eyed one that was drawn by two sturdy looking geldings and tossed the man a sovereign. 

 

"Baker Street," he cried as he jumped up, "and make it fast. We have urgent business to be about." 

 

I was hardly seated before the driver whipped the horses into motion. I settled back, adjusted my bag between my feet and couldn't help but give Holmes a wry smile.

Upon arriving at Baker Street Holmes tossed the man another coin and instructed him to wait for our return. Inside our quarters, the moment the doors were shut behind us, chaos of the best kind ensued. The door was hardly shut before Holmes was tossing his coat to our kind landlady.

 

In my haste I was a little kinder, however, I did take a moment to scrape the country mud off my shoes before entering.

 

“We must user haste, Watson!” Holmes cried out as he dashed up the stairs to our quarters. He paused halfway up to turn and look at me with an intense stare, “Mycroft is expecting us at the Diogenes Club within the hour. Your top hat, I think, will do.” 

 

I watched momentarily as he dashed up the steps out of view, then gave our ever longsuffering landlady a sympathetic look as I too handed her my coat and hurried after my betrothed. 

 

I dressed in my best suit, the one that Holmes had made for me when we’d first started frequenting concerts. (My previous best suit had apparently not been to his liking.) It was dark gray, a single breast button that tapered over my hips, and the fabric shone with a sort of metallic glint. It really was quite stunning. I finished the look with a gold pocket watch and my top hat, as Holmes had suggested, and hurried down a flight of stairs into the parlor where my beloved was waiting. 

 

“You have them, I presume?” Holmes asked as he gave me an approving once-over.

 

“Of course I have them,” I patted my breast pocket where the bracelets sat snuggly and met his smile.    
  
To our good pleasure the cabbie, most likely in hopes of more coin, had waited for us. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a faster jaunt through London streets than I had that day. (Though Holmes still swears his ride after Miss Adler ad been faster.)   
  
We arrived at the Diogenes Club just as a simple black carriage, drawn by a sturdy if not old mare, came plodding down the street. Holmes smile and nodded towards the pair. “I see our Reverend has agreed to meet us here.”    
  
Without needing to ask, I saw the wisdom in his plan. No one would think twice about two well-dressed men, especially two men who were commonly known to be privately consulted on some of the deepest matters, meeting with a Reverend at the Diogenes club. We had our Reverend, and with Mycroft’s presence, our witness. 

 

We three entered together and being expected were soon ushered through the room of silent dignitaries and politicians and brought into Mycroft Holmes' private office within the club.     
  
"Good afternoon, brother mine." the elder Holmes brother said in way of greeting, "Doctor Watson," he shook my hand then turned to the Reverend, "I don't believe we've met."   
  
"Ah, no," the portly Reverend said, shaking Mycroft's hand quite vigorously.  "Davor is my name," he said and I detected a slight French accent.

 

Pleasantries were exchanged, hands shook, then everyone, myself included, turned towards Holmes.    
  
"Oh for goodness sake," Holmes exclaimed, letting out a crisp laugh and moving across the room to stand by me, "this was as far as my plan if you can call it that, extended. After all Reverend, you're the expert here."   
  
"Quite right," Davor said, and he wrung his hands together. "Your telegram expressed  your desire for a short ceremony."   
  
"Short, yes." Holmes nodded and I felt him place a hand on my good shoulder.

 

I reached up and covered his hand with one of mine then turned my attention to the Reverend. "What do you need of us?"    
  
My question seemed to set things into motion. Davors cleared his throat and inhaled deeply as he gathered his wits about him. "Do you gentlemen have tokens to exchange? Rings, perhaps?"

 

"We have these." I handed him the brown paper package holding the bracelets. He carefully unwrapped them, nodded then handed them to Mycroft with instructions to hand them to us one at a time when he said too. Mycroft nodded in understanding and stepped around his desk to stand next to his younger brother.   
  
"Though this is not a public ceremony, shared between you and family, do not for one moment believe it lessens the meaning of what you two do here today." I nodded and heard Sherlock hum his agreement. "We live in a time where it is not common placed, or allowed, for two men to love one another. Though I ask you now, does that dampen your feelings towards each other?"    
  
Silently Holmes and I shook our heads and Davors nodded in understanding.

 

"Then, as you stand before me, without custom or traditions, in a defying act of love before God and your witness, do you take one another as husbands?"     
  
"Yes," Holmes and I both whispered, I found myself parched, my tongue felt too big for my mouth and my head swam. But Sherlock's hand on my shoulder gave me purchase and I said a tad louder, "Oh god, yes."   
  
"Then with these tokens," Mycroft handed us each a bracelet, "I declare you married."   
  
I went first I shifted out of Sherlock's gentle grasp and faced him directly. Taking his left arm in both my hands I kissed his wrist then clapped the bracelet in place. "I do, my love. Forever."   
  
Sherlock copied my motions and soon we were standing shoulder to shoulder facing Mycroft and Davors.    
  
"Thank you," I said, working the words out and smiled. "Thank you both."

 

"Treat each other well. Do right by one another." Davors said, and Sherlock, my husband Sherlock, shook the Reverend's hand.   
  
Davors took his leave then and left us standing next to one another grinning like boys in Mycroft's office. "Thank you, brother." Sherlock turned towards his older brother and extended his hand. Mycroft however, took it a step further and pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace.   
  
"If only it were this easy for everyone," he said, then pulled me into an embrace as well. "All should be allowed to live as they wish."

 

Mycroft sat back down behind his desk and let out a sigh as if longing for such a time. After a moment he shook himself out of his reverie and glanced back over to us.   
  
"How do you plan on celebrating?" he asked, then there was a scrape as he pulled his chair forward.   
  
"Oh, I dare say we'll manage," Sherlock said, grinning mischievously at me. And we did manage. Quite well. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if there is (from a writer's prospect) anything worse than having plots bouncing around your head but having absolutely no time to write. 
> 
> Most of this was entered into my Google doc while driving. 
> 
> No I didn't type it. I voice dictated it. Just picture me stuck in city traffic, saying "comma. Period. Question mark." And that is how this chapter came to life.

Holmes and I had been married for some time, six months or so, before we were found out. 

 

After a rather  _ enjoyable _ evening that consisted of, but not limited to, fine wine, Holmes playing the violin and a wonderful supper, I had fallen fast asleep in his bed. I had, of course, spent many a night in his bed, and he in mine, but that late summer night a client called upon us. 

 

It was just after midnight when I woke to the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door (for it stuck on an uneven floorboard) being opened.  Quite instinctively I sat up and did my best to look as if I had every reason to be there. I could argue that Holmes had gone to bed with a fever and I had fallen asleep tending to him. However, before I could get a word out Mrs. Hudson's face appeared as she held her lit candle up to the darkness inside our shared room. 

 

“Doctor Watson,” she whispered, and took a single step inside, “you gentlemen have a client. I've managed to detain him in my parlor. He was quite insistent on seeing Holmes tonight. I figured it wouldn't do to have him find the two of you like this.”

 

Holmes, who had woken up when I sat up, pushed himself up on one elbow. While my heart beat a single drum solo in my chest, my husband's features could just be made out in the candlelight and I saw a faint smile on his lips. 

 

“You know. In fact, you've known for quite some time. Perhaps all along.” Though his voice was thick with sleep there was no hiding the amusement his voice carried. 

 

“Of course, you great nimrod.” Said our landlady and she too was amused. “You hide it well, but I've known you a long time, Mr. Holmes. And you've not always worn a gold bracelet, especially not one that matches the bracelet on Doctor Watson's wrist. Hurry now, before your client grows bored and comes upstairs unbidden.”

 

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” Holmes stood up and threw on a dressing gown over his night clothes. “Send him up in precisely five minutes. With tea shortly after. No no, forget the tea, whiskey at an hour like this.” 

 

As Holmes readied himself I got up and made my way up to my bedroom. My head swam with the knowledge that not only did Mrs. Hudson know, but that she didn't seem to care. So flustered was I that I sat on the edge of my bed, and there I stayed for a good long while. I sat so long in fact that I missed the initial interview with our late night caller and Holmes had to come _ wake  _ me when the case made it prudent for us to leave immediately. 

 

The case was long and grueling. It kept us out, running about a rainy London until the following evening. By the time I'd hung my drenched coat on the hook in the hallway I was quite dead on my feet. Mrs. Hudson shooed up upstairs, bidding us to warm ourselves by a roaring fire, promising us dinner in due time. Holmes had, of course, sent a telegram ahead informing her of our pending arrival, and no doing state of body and mind. 

 

I dragged my chair a few inches closer to the fire and sat with a heavy sigh.  It was then, as Holmes disappeared into his bedroom, which we often shared, that I remembered Mrs. Hudson waking us the night before. 

 

I sat perplexed, wondering how such a woman as our landlady could stand back knowing about the buggery happening under her roof. If found out, not only would she face prosecution, but her whole social life as she knew it would end. That she knew and was fine with it hurt my head. 

 

A short while late Sherlock came out of his room in fresh clothes and his blue dressing gown. He took one look at me and sighed audibly. Sitting across from me he leaned over the space between us and put a hand on my knee. I looked into his eyes, noted that he'd combed his hair, and the stubble was gone from his face. 

 

"Watson," he said to me in a kindly tone, "is it really so shocking that our Dear Mrs. Hudson would know and that she would keep our secret. She does, after all, living under the same roof as us."

 

Our landlady chose that moment to enter our quarters with a tray full of food. She laughed warmly as she placed it on our table. 

 

"Or it is simply a woman's intuition. Or," the said with a wink in my direction, "I've caught you two kissing when you thought you were alone. I've already mentioned I saw your matching bracelets. Live and let live, I say. You aren't harming anyone." 

 

With that she made her leave and left me scrambling to pick my jaw up off the floor. 

 

After collecting myself, much to the amusement of my husband, I tucked myself into our dinner. Finding myself quite ravenous, we ate without speaking for some time. After I'd had my fill, I placed my napkin down on my plate and sat back. Holmes had eaten some of his food, however, he seemed more intent on watching me.   
  
"Do you honestly think we'll see a day where a relationship like ours isn't... illegal?" I asked, placing a hand on my stomach and letting out a content, if not perplexed sigh.    
  
"I'm certain of it, though it might not happen in our lifetime." Holmes stood and moved to the window, scooping up his violin as he went. Knowing he tended to think as he tuned the instrument, I set about clearing the table, leaving the dishes in a stack to be collected by Mrs. Hudson later.   
  
"Perhaps we're part of the movement. Part of something bigger, than just us. Have you heard of Oscar Wild, my dear?" Holmes plucked at a string repeatedly until he'd achieved the correct pitch, then moved to the next.    
  
"The name sounds familiar," I mused, sitting in my chair, hoping for a one-man concert in my honor, "he's a playwright if I'm not mistaken."

 

"Poet,  Classical scholar, poseur, yes." Sherlock mused, working each string until his instrument was tuned to perfection. "There are rumors, my love, if you listen to the right circles, that despite his marriage to Constance Lloyd, and fathering two sons, that he is guilty of gross indecency." Holmes spat the word as if he'd just sliced his finger open on a string.    
  
I sat in silence, wondering where this conversation was leading, and for a moment when Sherlock began playing, forgot that I was waiting for a conclusion to his story.   
  
"We are not few, people like us. We hide well, but Oscar... he tried, he married, had a family, yet even now at the brink of prison, he's speaking out." Sherlock continued to play, his song sad and keening. "I'm ashamed to say that I'm not as brave as he is. To risk my career, my life, you..." he paused, and the song stopped before picking back up with a low sorrowful note, "no, John. Not in our lifetime."

 

The song played for me that night was melancholy. It seemingly told our story, a story of love that must remain hidden. Of stolen moments of affection, then cold calculating interactions for the sake of the general public. It left me aching to hold Sherlock close, to enjoy a private moment while we could. When the song was over I stood and walked to him, gently extracting the violin from his grasp and stared into his somber face.   
  
"Dance with me?" I whispered and began to hum, thankful he didn't ask what song it was that I hummed as it was a dubious song about a sailor and a young maiden. But dance we did, oblivious to the world around us. Even to our landlady who cleared away our dishes and left us alone for the night without a word. Eventually, Holmes released his grip on me and stepped back, a smile tugging on his lips.    
  
"You certainly know how to cheer a man, John. I'm much obliged."    
  
"That is, after all, what I'm here for." I kissed him gently, then asked if he'd join me in bed.   
  
"I think not, for I have much on my mind," he was already lighting a cigarette and settling himself cross-legged on a cushion.    
  
"Goodnight," I bent down and kissed the top of his head, then with a parting glance went up to my room.

 

I cannot say that I slept well that night, and when I did sleep, my dreams were full of images of Sherlock in handcuffs, being dragged to prison. When I woke the next morning, I made a vow to myself, to never let anything happen to Holmes. I would allow myself arrested before any accusations fell upon him and tarnished his reputation.

  
  


* * *

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking this will have one more chapter. My brain honestly can't think up plots right now, so I'd rather end it on a good note. I'll try to make the last chapter the best I can! Thanks for reading this far, I greatly appreciate it.

London is, among other things, known for its dreary weather and persistent fog. 

 

I had been pulled from my sleep on one particularly dismal morning by a loud clatter, and a shout from the street below. A short ruckus followed, no doubt street urchins running for fear they'd be put to blame for whatever had just transpired. I pulled on the nearest thing on hand, yesterday's clothes as it happened, and hurried to the window, though only to confirm my suspicions. 

 

The heavy fog, it seemed, had not let up at all during the night, in fact, it appeared thicker than the day before and I was unable to see little on the street below other than the dim light of what was probably a hired hansom.  A low moan of pain wafted up, and my sleepy brain instantly snapped into action. Someone was injured, if I could do nothing about the fog, I could at least help the poor man below.

I hurried to my room, where I'd last placed my medical kit, then scuttled through the flat, raising the interest of my dear husband. He looked up from the newspaper, the scowl caused by whatever the latest headline was about this damned weather faded when he saw me, case in hand, rushing out the front door with nary a word.

Out on the pavement, it took me a moment to locate the scene of the accident, but remember from my bird's eye view that it had been slightly towards the left of our flat, I and Holmes who had of course been curious enough to follow, found the scene in just under a minute. There was a hansom cab, two horses with wild eyes snickering and stomping hooves,  no doubt passengers huddled inside, but my interest went straight to the man who was just pulling himself up off the ground, holding a bloody hand to his head.   
  


“What happened here?” I asked as I threw my case to the ground and knelt beside the injured man. He was portly, dressed well enough for a cabbie, his round face was crewed up into an expression of bewilderment and pain. He winced when I pulled his hand away from his head to inspect the wound and did his best to answer.

 

“Something spooked the horses, this damn fog,” he swore, then apologized, as I gently fingered the wound, finding to my relieve that though it was nearly as long as my finger, the cut was shallow, “They started you see, and I got knocked clean off. Hit my head right good, did I.”

 

“Did you see what spooked them?”

 

“No, sir, just heard a noise in the ally. Could have been anything from a cat to someone playing tricks.”

 

I nodded, then I did my best to brush the dirt and bits of rock away from his hair then resigned myself to the need for water. 

 

“Nurse!” I shouted, pointing a bloody finger at Holmes who’d wandered off to talk with the passengers. He looked at me with furrowed brows, but before he had time to comment on his newest title, I was barking orders. “Holmes, I need a bowl of hot water, and a clean rag, none of those rags that are near your experiments. And hurry!” 

 

To my relief, my husband didn’t argue, he simply gave me a curt nod then darted off with the speed and grace of a cat who’d just found his first mouse after an hour of hunting. While I waited for the water I asked the man a series of questions to determine his mental state. He’d been clear headed enough to announce what had happened, but I wanted to make quite certain there would be no lasting effects to his head wound. 

 

I asked him his name, which he gave easily enough, Jacob Turnstill. He was also able to correctly give me the time, the day, who was Prime Minister, and where he was taking his passengers.    
  
Holmes appeared a few moments later with a basin of water and a clean towel. As I cleaned the wound, taking time and care to get the grit out of the wound.

 

"Nurse?" He asked, rather comically, as I motioned he should hold the basin closer for me. 

 

"I was making do," I looked up and met his eyes as I dipped a clean corner of the rapidly bloodying towel into the warm water, "it got the job done, did it not?" I gave him a nonapologetic shrug then went back to my ministrations. 

 

After wrapping a bandage around my patient's head I urged him to take it easy for the next few days, but not to sleep for at least a few hours. Mr. Turnstill promised that as soon as he got his passengers to their destination he would return home. Holmes and I helped the man back up to his perch and, perhaps holding on a bit more tightly than before, he made his slow cautious way down the foggy street. 

 

Sherlock was gracious enough to help me gather my kit, and even opened the door for me. (Though more out of the simple desire to prevent me leaving bloody handprints behind than out of curiosity, I'm sure.)

 

I cleaned myself off then went to my room to return my medical kit.  When I stood form placing the case under my bed Sherlock was standing in the doorway, one hand braced on the wooden frame, the other immensely suggestively was cupped over his groin.

 

“It truly is a pleasure to watch you work, Doctor,” his voice was low, perhaps half an octave lower than normal speech, and he enunciated each word with special care, the all over effect was, seductive, sultry, intoxicating. After a moment’s pause, in which I did nothing but stand there, beside my bed with what I can only imagine was a stunned look on my face, he let go of the doorframe and moved slowly towards me, with each step he stroked himself through the thick fabric of his trousers.

 

When he’d finally finished his provocative walk and was standing before me, I noticed his pupils were dilated and his breath was coming in short ragged gasps.  The last time I had seen him this randy had been after I’d been shot in the leg during a case in which we discovered a ring of counterfeiters. He’d had me then and thereafter the police cleared out, against the very floor that held my blood, a deep desire blooming inside him to ensure that I was  _ very much _ alive.

 

Abruptly he put his hands on my shoulders and shoved, sending me stumbling backward until I was on my back, resting on my bed. My feet were still touching the floor, but with the quick, lithe movements he was on me, over me, crowding me onto the center of the bed until his body loomed over me. His hands were on my wrists, pinning them to the bed by my side, his strong legs straddling me, thighs holding me still. It was then that I realized I’d been holding my breath. Normally my husband was a gentle lover, giving just as much as he took, but there was something else in his eyes tonight, something that told me I was in for a much different experience. Just the mere speculation as to what he was about to do made my cock twitch in rapid interest. 

 

“Your ability, to with one single word, command attention is enthralling.” He brought his head down, inhaling hard against my neck as if he were trying to inhale my ever essence, “I already find you captivating, my dear John, but when you do that,” his teeth grazed over the side of my neck, sending gooseflesh coursing down my body and making me swallow hard, “I find I cannot control my desire for you.” 

 

I shifted my hips, rotating them up in a desperate attempt to seak out his body, seak friction, flesh on flesh (albeit clothed flesh), but he let out a crisp laugh and pulled away.

 

“Oh, my dear,”  he brushed his lips over the shell of my ear, “I think it is my turn to be in control.” With that his teeth sunk into my neck just at the hinge of my jaw. He didn’t draw blood but as his tongue danced over my skin I felt suction and knew he would leave a mark as the blood rushed to the forefront of my skin. He had never before marked me in a place that was visible to anyone but us, this new experience, instead of frightening me, fueled my own desire. I must have moaned, or made a noise because I heard him “harumphed” in pleasure before pulling away. 

 

Gray-blue eyes flashed within my limited field of vision then his hands were on me, tearing at my clothing. In my haste when I had dressed, I had forgone putting on a waistcoat, which made Sherlock’s job that much easier. Within moments I was naked and panting on the bed. He was the predator, I was his prey, and he had me just where he wanted me. There was no fight in me, just need and desire. He was still clothed, was even wearing his powder blue dressing gown over his ensemble. He now stood on the bed beside me, leaned down and traced a finger from the mark he’d made down my jaw and over my lips. My skin tingled and crawled where his finger had been and out of instinct, I parted my lips.

 

He slipped his finger inside my mouth and instructed me to suck. This was new and lude, I found myself in a deep state of lust. As if his finger were something more, his cock, I ran my tongue over the pad of his finger and sucked. His eyes flickered shut and his other hand went back to his groin, squeezing his erection as I worked. Suddenly his eyes opened and he withdrew his finger, I whimpered and he gave me a wicked grin as I writhed under him.

 

“I’m going to conduct an experiment on you,” he again traced his finger over my body, from my neck to my clavicle, “I’m going to see just how long you can hold out before ejaculating, by touching you everywhere,” his finger left my skin and he pointed to my dripping cock, his finger so close that I could feel his body heat, “except here.” 

 

He stood, suddenly, and took a step away from the bed. At first I thought he was going to undress, but instead he simply, in a brisk tone, told me not to move and left the room. I dared not move, not even to scratch my nose when it began to itch. I could hear him rummaging about, muttering, and when he finally came back into my room he was naked and was holding a long brown feather.

 

"The doors are locked, and unless the fog lets up I don't expect Mrs. Hudson back from her sisters any time soon. Which means," he came over to the bed and knelt on the edge, "you are not to remain quiet."

 

His knees were touching the side of my left thigh and his gloriously erect cock hung over my leg. Drops of clear ejaculate fell from its head and began pooling on my skin, trickling down my inner thigh. 

 

For a long moment, he remained still, saying nothing just staring at me. Piercing steel eyes absorbed every inch of my naked flesh. It was only after I felt my skin on fire from his gaze and I was writhing against the bed did he touch me, and only then with the feather. 

 

He trailed the feather over my stomach, up my chest, taking his time circling my nipples. My muscles convulsed beneath the feather, and he smirked as he brought the feather lower and lower. He ran it alongside my cock, over my bollocks then back up the other side. I moved slightly, tried pushing my hips into the feather but he countered my move and continued on teasing me. He took his time, and I lost count of how many times that feather covered every inch of my skin from head to toe, every inch except my aching cock. Oh, did Sherlock Holmes know how to tease, he put every ounce of his mental prowess into deducing exactly what touch would drive me the most mad.

  
  


I had a brief moment of reprieve when he tossed the feather to the bed and stood. I lay there, panting, moaning and shaking. I’d been so close, so close to my release and he’d simply  _ stopped _ . I just needed the smallest bit of friction and I would be gone. Holmes knew this, but he was not done with me yet. He ordered me to move, to get on my hands and knees. It took me a moment to get my limbs to work, but soon I was as ordered. I heard the sound of a jar opening, and let out a needy mewl. That was the sound of the jar of petroleum jelly I kept in my medical kit being opened. 

 

I jumped, and shouted, when two slippery fingers gently brushed over my anus, leaving behind a generous amount of jelly in their wake. A moment later, one single finger returned, and it began torturously slowly to press inside me. I found it unbearable, I  _ needed _ more. I pushed himself back, enveloping the finger deep within myself and let my head hang beneath my shoulders. This is what I wanted. I wanted to be fucked, I wanted him to play my prostate as if it were his violin. However, no matter how I moved, how I tried to manipulate his finger, then fingers, he avoided that sweet spot within me with precise movements. 

 

I was beyond words when I felt the head of his cock replace his fingers. I wanted to buck back, like I had done with his finger, fill myself with him. But he had my hips in a vice-like grip, I could do nothing more than wobble backward before he was pushing me hard in the opposite direction. He fucked me, with just the head of his cock until I was near tears, then suddenly he was inside me, he was pushing against the knot of nerves with such ferocity that I came on the spot. My vision blacked out, my hearing dimmed, my whole focus became that of my release, of the pressure then sweet sweet pleasure as I came against my bedding. I collapsed against the bed, and Holmes took what remaining pleasure he required from me as I lay there twitching.

 

When he too had come, he lowered himself down onto my back and we lay there, sweaty bodies mashed together. When words finally began to return, I sucked in a lungful of air and said    
  
“I… I need.” I didn’t quite know what it was I needed, but my husband did. He pressed a kiss to the very center of my shoulder blades then shuffled off of me until he was laying on his side. I rolled over, giving him a few more inches of the bed, and placed a hand on his back and laughed. I was laying in my own ejaculate and could feel his and melted jelly leaking out of me as I lay there, and I couldn’t be bothered to care. 

 

“I’m married to a mad man. It isn't’ even ten o’clock, and I’ve been thoroughly sodomized.” I shuffled a little closer, then leaned in for a deep kiss that lasted until we both ran out of our limited reserves of air.

 

“I thought you would have known that by now, John.” He returned my laugh, and lay there, looking positively smug while I indulged in the moment and allowed myself to nap. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise about my tardiness. This chapter gave me trouble. I knew what I wanted from it. Just not how to get there. I had to put it aside and come at it with fresh eyes

My husband Sherlock Holmes and I have been married near 35 years. We are no longer what society would qualify as young men, but nor do we feel we yet fit into the "elderly" status. I am older, by several years, and I keenly informed Sherlock that he is not allowed to call himself old until I do. He still finds it his prerogative to remind me of our age difference every opportunity he gets, but its playfully done and usually leads me to show him just how old I am not once we are alone. 

For my 65th birthday this past year, Sherlock announced his (albeit partial) retirement from detective work and handed me a key. It was up to me, then, to solve the little puzzle of what that key belonged to. He'd laid out an elaborate hunt, a scavenger hunt of sorts. The key lead me to the front door, on which was a note stuck under the knocker, the note had a riddle which lead me to the train station. Upon looking at the schedule, and matching numbers to the note, we (because of course, Holmes followed me every step of the way) ended up in the countryside. I admit I was a little stumped at that point, I looked to my husband and opened my mouth to ask for a hint when I saw something of interest.

There, beside a row of hansoms for hire was a motor car. Not even two days past had I expressed my interest to Sherlock about riding in one. They were growing in popularity and I was quite taken by them. My eyes flicked from the vehicle to Sherlock, who just smiled, and I knew I had it right. On the driver's seat was an envelope, inside was a card with an address. Out of his pocket, Holmes withdrew a map, and together we picked our way over country roads towards our (my) mysterious destination. 

Out destination, you might have guessed, was a small cottage tucked away on a seaside cliff, much like the one we'd vacationed at when our romance was just blooming. The key fit perfectly inside the lock on the front door. As we walked inside, Sherlock put a hand on my back and said in his softest voice, "Welcome home."

We moved in post-haste. The weather was spectacular, and with the passing of his brother, we had little left to tie us to the city. I'd been itching for something, a change of sorts, and this was exactly what I needed. Once settled, Holmes of course did not retire exactly. We took the odd case here and there, but my husband had a new hobby. A few, actually,  foremost was his fascination with electricity.  

It wasn't long before he'd pulled all the right strings (in more ways than one) and our house was soon wired up, we have light with a simple flip of a switch. He would tinker with it for hours, out in a shed far from where he could burn the house down with his experiments. He also kept bees and explored over the summer how different food sources affected their honey.

You, my dear reader, might be wondering what the point of this page is. I don't really have one, aside from wishing to tell the world once and for all how madly in love I am.  Unfortunately, I still cannot, without fear of repercussions. The type of love Sherlock and I share is still illegal, it is still worthy in the eyes of the law of jail time, or worse.  I fear now, despite my earlier hope and what Sherlock had said so many years ago, that we will not see in our lifetime our type of love made publicly acceptable. 

So, we wear our bracelets, our lovely matching bracelets, instead of wedding rings. We've fought the press when they spread rumors about us years ago. Rumors that were quieted when a friend of mine whom I served with went on record saying how my heart was broken while away at war when my then lady love left me with a letter. I did not ask him to do so on my behalf, but it did help us save face so to speak. It was widely thought that I had been in love and decided never to do so again. Which was not at all the truth.

My dear reader, I ask you now, are we any less of ourselves for loving who we love? Is my husband Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, any less of a man, or any less of a detective, because he loved a man? 

If your answer is yes, then kindly set this paper aside and let those with more open minds read my words. If your answer is no, then I hope with all of my heart that you will live, when we cannot, to see a day where it is okay to love who you love. Whether you are a man or woman or aren't quite certain what you are (I'm a doctor, I've met more than one person who felt they were trapped inside the wrong gender), I hope you see a day where you can express yourself with more than a bracelet. My husband is a great man, a good man, and a kind man. I'd like to say I helped play a part in that, that I was his moral compass along our journey together.

Below this page, you will find more pages, written by myself and Sherlock. We've captured our favorite moments together, so you might see it is okay to love who you love. That love sees not biological parts, but it sees hearts.  I hope, we can be an example to you, or at the very least, hope. We have no children, so you, my reader with a heart full of love, will be our legacy. 

-JHW & SH

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some intentions of a separate story of their transcribed moments John mentions. I'll used them as things to write when writers block makes me work on something else. :) I have no timeframe for when that will show up, but I'll make this a series and just subscribe to the series so you get notified.


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